Angelbound (16 page)

I exhale with relief. Nubian Pharaohs? That means Lincoln isn’t likely to take the Arena floor. At least, not yet.

I pick at the lint under my nails with my tail. Not that I care
what
he does, of course.

A trumpet call echoes through the air. The dirt floor shakes as the House of Horus does who-knows-what in the maze of hallways leading to the Arena floor. More trumpets blare as a dozen two-wheeled chariots barrel out of a nearby archway, each one driven by a pair of gray stallions.

The Arena floor rattles beneath my feet as the chariots charge around the stadium. My mouth bursts into a grin. These guys are so badass, it isn’t even funny.

As they tool around the Arena floor, I can see that the drivers are tall men with ebony skin, solid frames, and long dreadlocks. They wear brown linen pants topped by black leather tunics. The image of a looping Egyptian eye is sewn onto their chests in bronze thread.

The chariots ride in different formations, their paths creating a complex series of circles and lines. Golden bridles glimmer in the horses’ mouths. The chariots crisscross into the most complex pattern yet. Then, they stop in neat rows in one corner of the stadium. Whoa. I can’t believe they didn’t bump into each other at least once.

I clap wildly, but everyone else is silent. Oops. I pop my hands behind my back.

“Second is the House of Striga,” says Verus. “Their skills in sorcery and witchcraft are famous across the five realms.”

From the opposite archway, two-dozen men march onto the arena floor, their
bodies thin and lanky. All have olive skin and square faces. Purple beads are woven into their long brown hair. They wear the brown leather pants, silver chain mail, and velvet tunics decorated with a purple pentagram. The stick-men march into the middle of the stadium floor, align themselves into a huge circle, and quickly bow their heads. A low chant echoes through the air. A massive ball of red flame appears by the stadium floor.

I gasp. I’ve never seen magic before.

The scarlet orb zooms up into the sky and bursts like a firework. The Striga men march to another corner of the Arena, taking their place beside the House of Horus.

I bob on the balls of my feet, excited to see what the next House has in store. Sure, it’s a bummer I’m not battling anything right now, but this show almost makes up for that. Almost.

“Third is the House of Kamal,” says Verus. “These thrax are renowned for their skill with animals.”

More thrax march into the stadium, this time their cotton tunics hold the image of three claw scratches in deep blue. The Kamal warriors form a line across the center of the Arena floor, about twenty fighters in all. Their bodies look lean and sinewy; their cocoa faces are set into determined frowns.

Scanning the faces, I look for some girl fighters, but can’t find one. Hmm. The other Houses didn’t have female warriors either. That is so weird. I wonder if all the thrax women run around batting their eyes and feeling guys muscles like that Adair girl? Hmm. Not sure I want to know the answer to that question.

The Kamal let out a loud whoop. Tigers burst from the Arena archways, racing toward the floor’s center. Falcons swoop down from the sky; long blue ribbons hang from their talons. All the creatures settle in place, one animal for each warrior. They roar and shriek so loudly, I think my eardrums will burst. The warriors bow slightly; the animals fall silent. The Kamal march in unison, taking their places beside the other Houses. The falcons perch on their warrior’s arm, the tigers stand at their fighter’s side. All the animal’s bodies remain still as stone.

My mind whirls through all the demons that’d be easier to fight with a Kamal tiger or falcon at my side. I bob my head approvingly. Those would come in mighty handy, indeed.

“Fourth is the House of Acca. These thrax are renowned for their abilities with a crossbow.”

I lean against the stonewall, hitching my right foot across my left. This is taking a long time, but the warrior displays are super-interesting. Who knew there were so many ways to fight demons besides hand-to-hand? I work hard to look casual and actively ignore the unwanted images of Lincoln’s mouth that keep popping into my mind. An anxious feeling tightens my stomach.
Stop thinking about him, damn it.

Twenty warriors walk onto the Arena floor, their black velvet tunics sewn with the image of a gloved yellow fist. All have stout bodies, pale skin, and golden hair. Each fighter wears metal-studded gloves and carries a silver crossbow. The Acca warriors march to the floor’s center and stand in a long line. Moving as one unit, they all fire a single metal bolt straight into the air.

I purse my lips. That’s not so impressive. I know zero about crossbows, and I could do that, easy peasy.

The stadium holds its breath as the bolts fly skywards, then reverse direction and speed back to the ground. The warriors lift their arms, catching the bolts in their gloved hands.

I take it back. That’s a pretty neat trick.

“Fifth is the House of Rixa, rulers of the thrax and the only bloodline who can wield the mighty baculum.” A hush falls over the stadium as Lincoln, his father, and mother process onto the Arena floor. All three wear silver crowns.

On instinct, my body tenses into battle stance, tail arcing over my shoulder. All my forgotten anger from the library slams back into me, raw and present. ‘Real thrax warrior,’ my ass.

After the royal family, sixty warriors march onto the Arena floor in neat lines, each step in perfect unison. These men dress in black leather pants topped by silver chain mail and a black velvet tunic. The image of an eagle is sewn onto their chests in silver thread. The bird swoops downward, claws extended.

My tail whips behind me in a slow, predatory rhythm. My inner demon awakens, anger pumps through my veins. I grit my teeth as I take in the scene.

King Connor stands sturdy and tall, a silver sword hanging from a belt about his waist. Beside him, the Queen is arrayed in a black velvet gown with a full skirt and long looping sleeves, all edged in silver ribbon. Her sandy brown hair is wound into a bun at the base of her neck. Lincoln walks beside them with military precision. Shadows shift across his full mouth, brown hair, and strong shoulders.

My eyes flicker red with wrath.

The Rixa march to the Arena’s center, forming three columns of twenty soldiers each. The King, Queen, and High Prince stand nearby.

Lincoln steps forward, raising one hand. “On my mark!”

The men in the first column reach behind their backs, pulling what looks like two short silver rods from the folds of their tunics.

I squint, trying to see the weapons in their hands. Are those teensy little sticks the ‘mighty baculum?’ Not too impressive, Prince Pompous.

Lincoln lowers his arm.

The soldiers place one stick in each hand. A line of fire extends from both ends of the baculum, turning the rods into two short spears made of white flame.

The warriors toss the spears into the air. The lines of white fire whip skyward, then spiral back into the warrior’s hands. The Rixa set the two baculum together, creating one longer, heavier spear. Holding it before them with both hands, the warriors thrust the spear into the earth.

Okay, maybe that’s a
little bit
impressive.

Lincoln turns to the next group and nods.

The second column brings out their baculum, holding both sticks together in one hand. Fire extends from the baculum, turning the short silver rods into long tridents made of white flame. The warriors run through a series of synchronized lunges and spins. Like the first group, they end by setting the base of their tridents into the soil.

I hate to admit it, but that was cool, too.

Lincoln faces the last set of soldiers.

The third column raises their arms shoulder-high, one baculum in each hand. A rope of white flame extends between the silver rods. Before each warrior, the fiery baculum cord weaves back and forth until it turns into a small net made of fire. The soldiers toss their baculum-nets high into the air, where they all link together into one huge and fiery web. I can’t imagine a demon getting out from under that thing.

The fire-web hovers in the sky for a moment, then wafts slowly downward. When the great net lies just above the warrior’s heads, the Rixa raise their arms high, catching their baculum with ease. The fighters lower their hands. The fiery web breaks back into individual nets.

Lincoln pulls out two baculum of his own. He sets them together in his palms. A fiery broadsword appears in his hands. He sets his feet apart in battle stance and raises the fire-sword high above his head.

“In thrax hic sunt!” He speaks Latin, like the Scala. I’ve no idea what it means, but I guess it’s something like ‘thrax are in the house.’ At the sound of his voice, fresh anger zings through my system. I crack my neck and try to stay cool.

From her white throne, Verus sweeps her arm across the crowd. “The senior maiden of each major House is that house’s Great Lady. We’re fortunate to have four Great Ladies here with us today: Nita of House Kamal, Keisha of House Horus, Gianna of House Striga, and Adair of House Acca.”

Adair? As in ‘ooh you have such muscle-y muscles’ Adair? I grit my teeth and work hard to slow my breathing. I’m built to show up and kick ass, not stand
around while girly dips do their thing.

I inhale a slow breath. Keep it together, Myla. I’m sure she’ll just prance out onto the Arena floor and then stand somewhere and look pretty.

Four girls around my age step through a stadium archway, each wearing a gown in their house’s color: yellow, purple, bronze, and blue. They saunter across the Arena floor to stand before the King, Queen, and High Prince. Lincoln lowers his baculum; the fiery blade disappears.

I glance at my watch. School’s almost over. This bleeding ceremony has to end soon.

“The procession is complete,” says Verus. “We will now awaken the Scala Heir.”

The angels once again rise to their feet, their great wings extending behind their backs. They speak in unison. “Who is the Scala Heir?”

The Lady Adair raises her hand to shoulder level, palm forward. “I am the Scala Heir.”

What?! No freaking way. The Scala is supposed to be part angel, demon, and human. Thrax are only part human and angel. I eye Lady Adair carefully. She’s so perfect and cute-sy, she could easily be part-demon. Maybe she’s descended from one of those swamp monsters who pretend to be a lovely, drowning lady. You try to rescue the pretty, and you’re lured to your death.
Yeah, that’s it.

Lady Adair speaks again, her voice snapping me out of my thoughts. “I look forward to following in the long tradition of a thrax Scala.”

I grimace. The old Scala can’t last much longer. If she’s the Scala Heir, I
could spend years of quality time with this loser. Gross.

Adair carefully positions her long blonde hair over one shoulder. She’s tall and willowy with porcelain skin, high cheekbones, a thin mouth, and a turned-up nose. One mismatched eye is emerald green, the other’s drab brown. All in all, she looks perfectly capable of getting a book down from a shelf without any help.

Verus nods. “We shall now awaken the Scala Heir.” All the angels lower their heads. A point of white light appears in the air above the stadium. I wince and shield my eyes with one hand. My body relaxes a bit. Things are getting interesting again.

The Queen of the Angels raises her arms toward the floating white light. “We draw forth igni power to the Scala Heir.”

My gaze shifts between the magical light and Adair, who whispers back and forth with Gianna. I raise my brows. I’m bored too, but I’m not chit-chatting from the middle of the Arena floor.

Inch by inch, the tiny star lowers until it rests just above the sandy ground. The Arena grows oddly quiet as the star twinkles away. My tail starts freaking out, trying to drag me out the nearest archway. I smack the arrowhead end and tell it to behave.

With a deafening crack, the point of light bursts, filling the Arena with hazy brilliance. The angels raise their heads, their eyes blazing bright blue in the thick white fog. The demons howl and cough.

I inhale deeply, the air tastes sweet and calming. My tail quiets down.

Once the air clears, Verus gestures to Adair. “Prove you have igni power.”

Adair raises her arms above her head. “I am the Scala Heir.” Tiny points of light tumble from her fingertips like grains of sand.

Verus nods. “Now that the Heir has been awakened, she must be angelbound. Igni power comes from the angels. Once the Scala Heir displays true love toward someone with angelic blood, it will further activate her abilities with igni. When the current Scala dies, her full powers will appear.”

I count off the steps in my mind: awakened, angelbound, and then full Scala when the old one dies. Makes sense that the angels would want to control when and how the Heir is awakened. It’s a big job. I look at Adair, my mouth twisting onto one side of my face. Not sure she’s really cut out for it.

Verus gestures to the Scala Heir. “To whom do you wish to be angelbound?”

Adair grins. “I choose my true love, the High Prince Lincoln.”

My back teeth lock. I think I’m going to be sick.

“Does the High Prince accept this?”

Lincoln’s expression is unreadable. “Yes.”

Verus gestures to Adair. “Would you like to say a few words before you’re angelbound?”

Adair beams. “Yes. Thank you all for this lovely initiation.” She glances straight at me. “I’m glad that the lesser creatures could be here too.”

Anger spikes up my spine. What did I ever do to her? First, she makes snotty comments about me in the library. Now, she does it again in the Arena. Someone is asking for an ass-whooping.

Adair and Gianna start whispering again.

I roll my eyes. Sheesh, save it for the ride home.

Verus gestures to Lincoln and the Scala Heir. “Please turn and face each other.”

Adair quickly steps in front of Lincoln. Their gazes lock. Adair’s forehead crinkles. After that, she swoons and tumbles to the ground. Lincoln helps her back to her feet. Adair looks around the stadium, her eyes blinking madly.